Large meadows are lovely for picnics and romping, but they are for the lighter feelings. Meadows do not make me want to write.

I knew if I ate anything of hers again, it would lkely tell me the same message: help me, I am not happy, help me -- like a message in a bottle sent in each meal to the eater, and I got it. I got the message.

But I loved George in part because he believed me; because if I stood in a cold, plain room and yelled FIRE, he would walk over and ask me why.

It was like we were exchanging codes, on how to be a father and a daughter, like we'd read about it in a manual, translated from another language, and were doing our best with what we could understand.

My eyelids are my own private cave, he murmured. That I can go to anytime I want.

You're the perfect girl', he said, rubbing his chin. 'You expect nothing.

I felt the crumpled paper that had taken the place of my lungs expand as if released from a fist.